The conference room door clicks shut. Lock snaps. Heart pounds. Printer hums outside. Coffee stench mixes with her heavy perfume. Aurélie smiles, blonde cascade over black blouse. Deeper cleavage than photos. Short skirt rides up, black stockings peek. Pierre nods, casual shirt. My husband squeezes my hand. We sip champagne from plastic flutes. Small talk: Lyon traffic, project deadlines. Boring. Tense.
Eyes lock. Hers on my bordeaux lips, nails matching toes in black stilettos. I cross legs. Skirt slits higher. She serves refill. Plunging view down her top. Tits strain lace bra. I do same for Pierre. His eyes bulge. Flush creeps up my neck. We laugh. Coquines.
The Build-Up
Her hand grabs mine. Strokes fingers. Warm. Slow. Lifts to lips. Kisses palm. Breath catches. Room spins. Chair creaks. She places it on thigh. Skirt edge. Stocking top. My fingers slip under. Skin hot. Smooth. Her chest heaves. Smiles disarm. California plays low from laptop. I stand. Pull her up. Dance slow. Bodies press. Hands roam backs. Hers dips to my ass. Mine hikes her skirt. Lips brush. Tongues tangle. Five minutes. Endless.
Back to couch. Kisses deepen. Fingers pop blouse buttons. Nail grazes nipple. Gasp. Invite husbands. They flank us. My man’s hand trails leg. Hers kisses Pierre. I taste her on his lips later. No—mine on his. Hand strokes my pussy over thong. Wet.
The Explosion
She drops skirt. Lace garter. String barely covers ass. Aurélie touches. Fingers trace thong. ‘Soaked pussy.’ I sit. Legs spread. Blouse opens. Bra slips. She sucks tit. Tongue swirls. Moans echo off glass walls. Printer spits paper. Distant.
Her mouth frees. Grabs her hand. Guides to my husband’s bulge. Zipper rasps. She frees cock. Strokes. I kneel. Suck him slow. Her finger joins. Tease slit. Too close. Stop.